Poetry Must Be Simple, Sensuous, Or Impassioned.

When Angels Visit Earth, The Messengers Of God's Decree, They Come As Lightning, Wind: Before The Throne, They All Are Living Fire.

My Own Curiosity And Interest Are Insatiable.

Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses Yearning To Breathe Free.

The Soul, At Peace, Reflects The Peace Without, Forgetting Grief As Sunset Skies Forget The Morning's Transient Shower.

Thick February Mists Cling Heavily To The Dead Earth And To Each Leafless Tree, And Closer Down Upon The Hilltops Draw, Dull Forecasts There Of Bright, Sure-coming Spring; Yet The Heart Gathers Hope And Strange Delight From This Dear, Unlovely, Wished-for Sight Of Leaden-misted Twilights Lengthening.